As Peter followed Michael and Micky through the door, he heard a familiar yell.
"DADDY!" Cried a shrill voice. Peter looked around the bulk of Micky/Michael to see Christian Nesmith running to his father as fast as his little legs could carry him. He wrapped his chubby California-brown arms around one of Michael's legs.
"Hey there, partner." Michael grinned, a genuine smile that Peter hadn't seen in a while.
"Hi Micky!"
"Howdy." Micky tipped an imaginary hat, quite to the little fella's amusement.
"Why's Daddy carrying you, Micky?" Christian wanted to know.
"Micky hurt his foot, and he can't walk." Michael explained.
"Why'd he hurt his foot?"
"Why do you always have to know everything?" Michael chuckled, tousling his son's dirty blond hair. "And where's your momma?"
"Davy's taking care of me. Momma went shopping." The little boy smiled like it was the second coming of Christmas.
"Oh Phyllis." Michael muttered, rolling his eyes skyward. "Alright, c'mon. We've gotta go take care of Micky." He walked to the kitchen, kicked open the door, and set Micky down on the counter. Christian bounced in, holding Peter's hand.
"Need any help Michael?" He asked.
"I might. Son, where's Davy?" said Michael as he rummaged through the cabinets.
"I dunno." The youngest Nesmith scrambled into a chair. "He said there was a bird he wanted to talk to. Do British people usually talk to birds?" The room erupted in laughter.
"Probably wanted to do a little more than talk!" Micky exclaimed.
"Davy will have all the mothers in Los Angeles after him before too long." Said Peter.
"They'll be wondering where all their daughters' clothes have gotten to!" Micky said, a boyish grin on his face.
"But they might not mind once they learn exactly who is relieving their daughters of their garments."
"Guys, guys, there's an innocent mind present." Michael admonished lightly. They all looked to Christian, who was happily playing with Peter's beads.
"Sweet naiveté. I miss it." Peter sighed. He watched as his beads were rolled around the table, clinking and clacking. Christian didn't know what they meant, he didn't know that they were to remind people to love. Peace and love come naturally to children. They don't understand war or hatred. It just doesn't make sense to them.
You don't understand why your daddy doesn't like me. Or why I'm so frustrated with him. Peter let his head sink into his hands. Musicians' tempers run hot, that's why. We're perfectionists. If we've got a problem with somebody, we don't hide it. That's why we make music. If we didn't, we'd likely go around yelling at people.
The frustrated musician looked at the grains in the table. He stared at them intently until his eyes crossed and his head started to hurt. He most certainly didn't want to look at Michael. Michael was wrapping Micky's foot, by the sound of quiet cursing echoing around the room. Every once in a while, the steady stream of vulgarity was broken by a half-hearted joke. The beads just kept rolling, thumping unevenly on the old warped wood.
Peter felt a gentle poke on his shoulder, hot breath on his arm.
"What's wrong?" A small voice asked. Peter turned his head to see Christian looking at him with Michael's eyes. The concern in those eyes touched him. He hadn't seen Michael look at him that way since Peter popped Davy in the jaw. Peter had run from the scene, and Michael caught him in the parking lot.
Michael put his hands on his shoulders, stopping him in his tracks.
"Where're you goin' so fast, shotgun?" He had asked in a teasing voice. Peter looked up, tears shining in his eyes.
"I'm going to kill myself." His was the voice of a tortured man.
"Peter, what are you talkin' about? What happened?" A light rain had begun to fall, and little drops were catching in Michael's black hair.
"I- I hit Davy." Peter said, looking back at the ground.
"Sometimes the little sucker needs to be smacked, it's okay Pete."
"No, it isn't. It's never okay to hit someone. I just betrayed everything I stand for." He tried to swallow the quiver out of his voice.
"Honestly buddy, you're overreacting. We all screw up sometimes. You know how I believe God can cure anything? Well sometimes I take a pill or three when the hangovers get bad. Nobody's perfect." Michael said. Peter looked up in shock. Michael rarely talked about religion. "C'mere." As he was crushed into a hug, Peter smiled. Michael was a hands-off kinda guy, so when he gave you a hug, you knew he meant it.
